


His Beautiful Wife

by Saltrova



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mind Games, One Shot, Psychological Torture, Ramsay is his own warning, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 19:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saltrova/pseuds/Saltrova
Summary: Ramsay is at his best when he plays mind games.





	

_His beautiful wife,_ he thought smirking at the pitiful picture that she painted. A shivering form buried beneath a mass of fur as if it would offer her protection. He could barely contain his glee as her strained breathing rose in volume and became more ragged the nearer he drew to the bed. The fur draped form began shivering so violently that he was surprised the room did not fill with the sound of rattling bones. 

“Hello, wife.” He lazily trailed a finger down her form, drawing a startled whimper from her. Ramsay basked in her fear as he continued running his finger down her covered form. “Are you hiding from me?” he inquired, his voice deceivingly concerned. He gently gripped the furs and slowly pulled them down, revealing her body at his own pace.

She offered no resistance. She knew better.

But Ramsay always liked to push her into reacting, just so he could have the pleasure of punishing her for it. “Did you have a good day, my lady?” he questioned, his lips offering a caring smile, his eyes full of calculated, barely concealed malice.

“Y- Yes, my lord.” Her voice was scarcely above a shaky whisper.

He offered her another smile as he lowered his head to plant a soft kiss on her cheek.

She trembled beneath his lips.

“Are you cold, my lady?” he blinked wide eyed, feigning obliviousness.

She shook her head. “N-no.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want my wife catching a chill.” He stared at her expectantly until she slowly sat up.

She knew that he didn’t like to wait. 

“Remove your clothes,” he patiently reminded.

Her fingers slowly reached down to grab the hem of her nightdress, hesitated, and then began to tug the dress up.

Ramsay raised an amused brow as she dragged out the simple task that should have been completed in mere seconds.

When she finally was free of the gown, she huddled into herself and rubbed her arms as if fighting off a chill. But the room was heated both from the hot water that ran within Winterfell’s walls, and the fire that was dancing in the fireplace. 

He mused over how he should go about things tonight as he removed his clothing. Should he be merciless with her and fill the chamber with her screams? Or should he further mess with her mind by laying feather soft kisses all over her body? She still bore bruises from her last display of insolence that he had to correct. Although it would be satisfying to mar her skin with more bruises and watch the discolorations crisscross and bleed into each other like a dark display of art, it would be just as equally satisfying to allow her bruises to heal so that her pale skin would once more be a clean canvas to decorate with his handiwork. Ramsay sighed. Things could never be simple.

He joined his wife on the bed, noting the tears that had already welled up in the girl’s eyes. He didn’t mind her tears. He welcomed them. And he had every intention of making sure that she shed plenty tonight. “My beautiful wife,” he crooned, molding her teats with his palms.

She shuddered and a feral smile eclipsed his face.

Ramsay pressed his lips against her ear. “Show me how much you have missed me today.” He slowly lifted his head and stared down into her eyes, satisfied at the wild, panicked look that overtook them. Like a prey that knew it was trapped. 

As she remained stiff and motionless, his patience quickly ran thin. He sighed as he reached for his knife. It wasn’t his sharpest knife unfortunately. He had a feeling that Roose would _strongly_ object to him carving their Key to the North into ribbons of blood. But although the blade was duller than he would prefer, it would do. Her screams provided him the most joy that he had experienced all day as he lovingly traced the knife over her skin. He reveled in the way her pale flesh offered resistance before slowly giving way under the blade. The lacerations wouldn’t leave disfiguring permanent scars. Only faint pale lines would remain once they healed. Anything more severe would infuriate Roose.

Ramsay still seethed from her earlier audacity to refuse his command after he had graciously allowed her to leave her chamber. Right in front of his men she had dared to challenge his position as future Warden of the North. He couldn’t train her as much as he would like. Not like his Reek. But the knife was always the quickest way to break her down when she persisted in her impertinence. It took little effort to reduce her to the squealing weakling that she was. Her blood and screams had his blood up. He wrapped his hand around her throat as he rammed into her, clenching his jaw at the intense pleasure. 

By the time he spilled within her, she lay unmoving. Ramsay withdrew from the unconscious girl and stared down at her battered beauty in rapture. Her brilliant red hair was spread out around her face, competing with the blood that had dried on her skin and stained the bedclothes. He gently stroked his knuckles down the side of her face. One day he will skin this wolf and turn her into a floor mat for the new North to trample.


End file.
